Fireflies and Lies (A Summerbrook Novel Book 4) Read online

  Fireflies

  and

  Lies

  A SUMMERBROOK NOVEL

  VICKI WILKERSON

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Vicki Wilkerson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  Cover photo by Suzanne Tucker

  Filigree Press

  First Edition November 2017

  ISBN-10: 0-9848597-7-1

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9848597-7-1

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Preface

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Recipes from Vicki’s Kitchen

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To Joan,

  From middle school, to maid of honor, to maturity…forever my best friend…

  Acknowledgments

  I shared this book—at first—with my forever girlfriend authors who occasionally help me paint Charleston (and Georgetown) in various shades of…wine. Nina Bruhns, Judy Watts, and Dorothy McFalls have been by my side every step of my writing journey and gave me valuable direction for this book at its inception. Most recently, during the writing and editing of it, it has passed through the hands of my amazing critique partners, Gail Ransom and Cynthia Cooke. What would I ever do without you ladies?

  It is impossible to bring a book to fruition without the assistance of numerous writing professionals. My beta reader, and dear friend, Linda Crawford, is always indispensable in this matter. Not only does she read in record time, she also provides valuable “Southern” insights and keeps my stories authentic. My new partner-in-crime in many artistic, public relations, and philanthropic endeavors, Nancy Foster, can proofread like a boss, and I owe her many thanks for her work and her friendship! I’d also like to thank my former colleague, a fellow English teacher and copy editor extraordinaire, Susan Jones. She edited the manuscript into the entity I’d had in my head. For many years and in so many instances, she and I have been on the same page, literally and figuratively. Susan, I am deeply grateful.

  With each book I’ve written, I have to thank my handsome, hunky husband, who listens to my plot problems and talks me away from throwing whatever I’m working on into the cast iron syrup kettle we use as an outdoor fireplace. Don’t tell him, but he’s also where I get a lot of the mushy stuff.

  Finally, I’d like to more thoroughly thank my best friend, Joan Burns Collazo, to whom I’ve dedicated this book. She has stuck by my side since middle school, through thick and thin. Though all the circumstances in this novel are different, Joan inspired the friendship that exists between the main character in this book and her best friend. Ours is a life-long alliance, grounded upon having one another’s backs. Joan is unerring in her love for me, unwavering in her support of me, unrelenting in her defense of me, and unbelievable in her generosity to me. She is—in short—the friend that I aspire to be to her and the friend I pray each of you are blessed to have in your lives. Joan, my eternal love and devoted friendship are yours forever, just like I wrote in your high school yearbook:

  “You and I are going to be friends until we turn gray.”

  Well, sweetie, we’ve done it!

  Preface

  In the South, land is life. We are connected to it with our persons and our souls—and in many cases, our ancestors have shed blood for it. Place is an integral part of who we are. Even when we have to leave a home or sell our land, it is still rooted deep within us, like an anchor, holding us to the ground on which our families toiled and played and lived and died. It is most ours when that land is generational and when we bury our dead under it or near it.

  Our connection to land is best stated in Genesis 3:19. “…for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.” It is our beginning, and it is our end.

  The main character in this novel struggles with what seems like the inevitability of losing her family’s plantation, and it nearly breaks her that she is about to forfeit hundreds of years of family history in the bargain—not to mention the fact that her parents and two dear old souls will have to find a new life on someone else’s property.

  Many people are compelled by the love of a certain parcel of earth to rise up and do anything that has to be done to save that which is so synonymous with their very being. Such is the journey of this book.

  Chapter One

  “Each blade of grass has its spot on earth whence it draws its life, its strength; and so is man rooted to the land from which he draws his faith together with his life.”

  ~ Joseph Conrad

  Jenna Bellingham had looked for her mother in all the usual places on DeBordieu Plantation, her family’s ancestral home, but she was nowhere to be found. That meant only one thing to Jenna—a stroll to their dock on the Ashley River, the place she’d last seen her big brother, alive with all the promise and pageantry any Lowcountry boy had ever possessed. With his Carolina tanned arms and his blond hair, the color of an aged sweetgrass basket, he’d taken his last dive into the river with Jenna only feet away, unaware of how her life was about to be destroyed.

  Her mother would be there. On that dreadful dock, where she’d been spending too much time lately. But that time was running out, and she knew it. Jenna knew it, too. The ticking clock had caused all the painful wounds they bore to open again—all the raw emotions that really hadn’t been dealt with—to resurface. But it seemed that there was nothing—no matter how hard she was trying—that could be done—about the wounds, about the land.

  She had not completely given up; however, she no longer let her mother know how she researched the internet for ideas and how she talked to everyone she crossed who might have a suggestion for her to make the plantation profitable and sustainable. Nothing had materialized in all her efforts, so she’d stopped giving her mother false hopes.

  All her life, her parents had sheltered her, refined her and even sent her to Paris for part of her education. To her mother, Jenna’s strongest attribute and most likely asset to save the plantation was her very cultivated image of being a sophisticated Southern belle, but that had done them no good either—because Jenna would never stoop to selling out her integrity for a loveless marriage just to save their land.

  As expected, she had dressed to the nines for the evening—except for her shoes. She still kicked around the old plantation like when she was six, barefooted and brave. She loved the way the warm sandy road felt between her toes, soft and powdery. Home. Old live oaks reached with arthritic arms to shade her path to the river that bordered and protected her family’s land. That was how Jenna felt on the land, too—protected. Too bad she was having such a problem doing the same for the land.

  Up ahead the path brightened, and she could see the majestic river moving slowly, like an old man nearing the end of his life. And there was
her mother—her beautiful, proper mother, Isabelle DeBordieu, gentle as the jasmine that grew along the old brick and iron fence that surrounded the formal gardens behind the plantation house.

  “Thought I’d find you here, Momma,” Jenna said as she’d placed her hand on her mother’s shoulder. She walked around the side of the wrought iron bench and sat beside her. She took her mother’s hand in hers.

  She gazed past the old wooden structure that jutted out into the Ashley River, past the ancient oak tree that stretched over and into the muddy waters, past the old rope swing to the abandoned rice fields that lay beyond. An egret walked gingerly in the shallows on the opposite shore, fishing for dinner.

  After a lingering silence, she said, “I’m sorry, Momma.”

  Her mother shook her head and looked at Jenna with tears in her eyes. “None of this is your fault. You know that, don’t you, sweetie?”

  “I can’t help but to feel it is. If I’d have been able to fulfill my…obligations.”

  Her mother squeezed her hand. “No. You can’t think that way. Our family is not the first to relinquish their plantation to another line in the family.” She nodded. “We never really owned this place anyway. Your seven-times Great Grandfather Henri was the last DeBordieu to truly own it. And still does in many ways.”

  Jenna stared as the current carried an old log in its wet embrace along its wide flow. “Who sets up a trust to rule his decedents like that?” She gazed at the swirls in the water as it neared the bend in the river. “Freakin’ control freak.”

  She and her mother both burst out laughing. Jenna had her own issues with control and didn’t really have the piety to be calling someone else a control freak. But she was glad she could make her mother laugh—a little.

  “I guess I could blame God as well as Henri DeBordieu and his iron-clad will.”

  “I won’t have you blaming God either. Things are the way they are.”

  They both stared blankly at the ancient river that sliced through the Lowcountry.

  Her mother broke her gaze and moved on the bench. “You look pretty, sweetie. Except for your dirty feet.”

  “Yeah, well, I was waiting until the last minute to put on the Louboutins. Kind of hard walking in the sand in them, and I wanted to say goodbye before I left.”

  Her mother smiled and stared out at the river again.

  She squeezed her mother’s hand. “Momma, I don’t like seeing you sitting down here all alone.”

  Her mother nodded. “Staying away from here doesn’t help much either. I’ve made so many mistakes.” She inhaled deeply. “I’m sorry, sweetie, I should never have lied to you.” She dropped her head. “And I should never have sent you away.”

  Jenna had been carved by those very events, deeply and for life. But it had been the best her mother could do under the awful circumstances. Still…

  Jenna searched for words to say, but couldn’t find any—at first. Maybe this could be handled with more humor. “Well, at least I learned French.”

  They both laughed—a little.

  “And speaking of French, I need to get all the things from the dress shop to the silent auction at the Oaks Country Club before Madam Legare kills me.” She needed to get away for many reasons, but especially because the gloaming hour would arrive soon, and the reminders would be all about her. At the dock, no less.

  “I know, sweetie. And you want to be there for April, too.”

  April. Her best friend since childhood. Her only true friend since she was five. She needed to be there to protect the only person in the world—other than her mother—who completely understood her. April and she had a special bond—like that of sisters—close sisters.

  “Walk back with me, Momma. I don’t want to leave you here.”

  Her mother stood and entangled her arm in Jenna’s. She paused briefly to gaze at the monster that the water was. “Things would have been so different.” Longing and desperation hung in her tone.

  Jenna knew her mother hadn’t meant to hurt her, but the words cut deeply into the old scars, and the briny, tidal waters that were coursing to and from the Atlantic lashed at them and splayed them as wide as when they had been first made. There seemed to be nothing she could do to stop what was about to happen to their home, their land, their livelihood. Everything was about to change.

  The two strolled back silently, the sand cushioning and slipping around the soles on Jenna’s feet. With her free hand, she moved the long tendrils of Spanish moss that hung in gray streams of tears from the limbs of the live oaks that shaded the road. A fox ran across the path in front of them. It seemed to startle her mother, but Jenna was comfortable around all the wildlife on the plantation. Jasper, the plantation’s gardener, had introduced her to all the furry, squirmy, flying and crawling creatures that shared her land with her—the place she felt too comfortable on—the place she feared losing for her family.

  As she strolled, she thought about one of her favorite quotes from the old book Jasper had given her for Christmas when she was ten. “Each blade of grass has its spot on earth whence it draws its life, its strength; and so is man rooted to the land from which he draws his faith together with his life.” Joseph Conrad had thought like she did. One’s land engendered faith and life. But her faith was ebbing away, like the river at low tide.

  They arrived at the carriage house, the building that they had restored for Jasper and his wife, Amberlee, to occupy—that is until Amberlee refused because she was ‘perfectly comfortable’ in the cabin she’d lived in since her youth. After college, Jenna had moved into it because she had been used to her independence. It looked like she was going to get a lot more independence…very shortly.

  Her mother put her hand on Jenna’s face and then brushed her hair behind her ear. “I want you to have fun tonight.”

  Jenna half smiled.

  “No. I’m serious. You’ve been walking around like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

  Her mother didn’t know that that was exactly how she was feeling. She nodded.

  “And give April a big hug for me.”

  She nodded, kissed her mother’s cheek like a Judas and walked inside to wash up and to step into her Christian Louboutins.

  ⸙

  As Jenna picked up a tiny snake beside her car in the Oaks Country Club parking lot, she could just see the headlines in the monthly Summerbrook Ladies League Newsletter: Jenna Bellingham handles snakes in Christian Louboutin heels. Yep, they would have a field day with that piece of information if they ever found out. If you’re spotted with serpents in the South, people thought you either belonged to one of those fringe religions who drank poisons and passed snakes in church to prove your faith or that you dabbled in a little voodoo. If you lived in another part of the country, they might think you just liked reptiles.

  She released the harmless green snake into the edge of the woods, stood up, straightened her designer dress and scanned the historic Oaks Country Club behind her. No one had seen her. Good. She didn’t think she needed to ruin her carefully crafted reputation as a privileged debutante—not just yet—though it was coming sooner than she wanted. No one needed to know how much time she’d spent during her childhood playing alongside her family’s gardener as he’d worked on the plantation. So much so that she knew an innocuous fellow from a rattlesnake.

  She pushed aside long, gray strands of Spanish moss as she maneuvered back to her car under the low flung limbs of the ancient oaks trees that decorated the nether regions of the country club’s parking lot. So many vehicles. No wonder the little guy had been squirming so fast to get away from all the commotion. But he’d been going the wrong way and heading straight into the line of traffic. She had her own problems with God, but she still wouldn’t let one of His creatures die…even though He’d disappointed her.

  Finally at her BMW, she grabbed a package from her front seat for the silent auction to be held tonight. She paused in the low glow of the evening to take in the formid
able façade of the old plantation turned country club, but something distracted her. A heavy knot lodged in her stomach.

  The twilight reminded her of the evening she’d lost her big brother. Her rock. Through the lacy gray tendrils hanging from the arthritic arms of the old trees were little twinkles of light. Fireflies. They had been out on that unusually warm spring evening, too. The night Anson drowned.

  Jenna had begged her brother a thousand times not to dive into the Ashley River from the rope swing that hung over the swift, treacherous waters that bordered their family’s plantation. She’d taken her eyes off him to gaze at the fireflies.

  He was sixteen. And then he was gone.

  Fireflies always brought her back to that moment, but she was going to put all that out of her mind for the evening. To support her best friend, April Church, at the charity auction for Ben, the little boy who had leukemia.

  She trudged up the steps with the items from the dress shop where she…sort of worked. She entered the grand foyer. These kinds of events were getting harder and harder for Jenna—the closer she got to letting her family down. The closer she got to losing the plantation. If only Anson hadn’t drowned. He never would have let this happen.

  Speaking of snakes, at the end of the huge entry hall was her cousin Dylan Upton DeBordieu—whom she’d secretly nicknamed D.U.D.—for his initials. Lately, she’d been calling him Dudley. If something didn’t happen soon, he was about to inherit her family’s plantation and fortune because Jenna was unable—or incapable, or whatever—to fulfill the requirements in her ancestor’s will—a document that had been drafted by some of the very men who’d actually written the freakin’ constitution, and it was practically carved in stone, designed to ensure her family’s legacy—no matter the people it decimated in its gaveled finality.